by Renee Roszel
"It's canned chili. You're welcome, again," he replied.
She frowned. "Okay, okay. I appreciate everything you've done for me today. I'll admit it and I'll say thank you, if you get off my case about being after you and your money." She caught his stern gaze. "Do we have a truce?"
He watched her silently. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle and hiss of burning logs. At last, he held out a well-shaped hand. "Deal, Miss Meadows. Truce."
Tentatively, she took it. His fingers were warm, though damp from handling her clothes. As swiftly as she could, she pulled away from his touch and looked down at her bare feet, searching her mind for a safe subject. "I…I can't believe I spent the afternoon chasing down chickens. We had a hog farm and I've fallen in mud before, but…"
"You looked like you'd been tarred and feathered."
She shot him a sharp glance, but could see no sarcasm in his face. Though his dark eyes sparkled with humor, his demeanor seemed almost friendly. She had an urge to call him on the remark, but deciding to honor the truce, she let it go.
"How's that bump on your head?"
She tentatively reached up to touch it. It was slightly swollen, and she winced. "A little tender."
He knelt near her, and she could detect again that spicy masculine scent that seemed to cling to him. Brushing the wet hair away from her forehead, he examined her injury by the firelight. He didn't quite frown, but seemed concerned. "We don't have any ice to put on it," he said. "You'll have a bruise, but no black eye this time."
His fingers lingered on her face for an instant longer than she would have thought necessary. Their eyes chanced to meet, hers curious, his enigmatic. Dropping his hand, he stood abruptly. "I'd better check the chili," he stated brusquely, striding away.
"I should be getting home," she called after him. "Scandalmongers would love to get wind of this little scene. We'd make all the gossip columns." She shook her head. "What would such a story do to Eden?"
He glanced over at her from his place before the stove. Somehow, he seemed too big for the small cabin. Shaking his head grimly, he vowed, "No one will find out, because you won't tell anyone. I have your promise on that, don't I?"
His tone sounded suspicious again. Hurriedly, she nodded to reassure him. "Believe me, I have no desire for that kind of publicity ever again."
His expression softened slightly. "That's good news. And as for Eden, she trusts me just as I trust her. I'll do nothing to damage that trust."
Their shared kiss in the factory flashed through her mind, and she flinched at the recollection. Apparently Tarrant had the same thought, or he had read hers. "Blast it, Angela," he snapped. "Don't remind me."
She straightened. "I didn't say anything."
He lifted his face to the beamed ceiling. "You irritate the life out of me sometimes. I acted irrationally that night. Have the grace to forget it."
She chewed the inside of her cheek and turned to stare into the dancing fire. It blurred before her. Something that had been singularly revealing to her—something some foolish part of her brain would not let her ignore—meant no more to him than a swat at a pesky insect. And he was asking her to forget it. Trying very hard to prevent her voice from quivering, she said, "For Eden's sake, I will."
"Thank you," he murmured solemnly.
When he didn't say anything else, she was forced to look back at him. He was watching her intently. There was something unexpected in his dusky look, something new. Was it tenderness toward her because she'd shown compassion for Eden? Possibly, but there seemed to be more. Exactly what that more was, she couldn't fathom.
Suddenly his lips twitched into a crooked grin. Even mocking her as it was, his smile lit up his features, stealing Angela's breath. What a devastatingly attractive man he was. She shrank back farther in her scratchy cocoon, distressed by how swiftly and heatedly she'd reacted to his smile. "What are you smirking at?" she demanded, but her voice had come out sounding oddly breathy.
He turned away to take the chili pot off the stove and carry it over to the counter where two bowls waited. "I was just thinking hew crazy life can be. I never expected to be cooking you dinner while you were wearing nothing but a blanket."
Her pride surfaced and she retorted, "It hasn't exactly been one of my fantasies, either!"
He laughed outright, a sound that filled the cabin with its deep richness. "Touché, Miss Meadows." With a nod, he indicated the table. "If you're warm enough, why don't we eat over here?"
He placed the bowls on the scarred wood and surprised Angela by holding out a chair for her.
"There's canned apple juice. Would you like it now or for dessert?" he asked when she was seated.
"Later's fine." Fumbling with her blanket, she managed to free one arm, but not without baring a shoulder in the process. The small cabin was toasty, with both the stove blazing and the fire roaring. Having her shoulder exposed wouldn't make her cold. She noted that when Tarrant saw her flesh appear, he averted his eyes, as though the sight of her skin and the snowy rise of a breast bothered him.
They ate in silence. Angela watched Tarrant covertly, thinking of how at home he seemed in this rustic cabin and how adept he'd been on the back of a horse. It seemed that he was as comfortable living in the woods as he was in boardrooms and New York soirees.
He glanced her way, catching her quiet observation of him. Not knowing quite what to say, she mumbled, "Good chili."
He smiled that melting smile. "I'm good at opening cans."
Working to control a foolish shortness of breath, she had to give him credit for honoring their truce. They'd never spent so much time together without one of them getting angry. She indicated the fire with her spoon, then said, making conversation, "I saw you start that with nothing but a match and a few dry leaves. I thought you needed gas to start a fire."
"For a farm girl, you don't know much." He chuckled. "Your father must not have been very handy."
She felt a stab of regret, but not anger. He was right. Though her father had been a wonderful man in many ways, he wasn't very handy—as with many other things he'd tried, he'd so badly mismanaged the hog farm that he'd lost it. Lowering her gaze, she took another bite without answering.
"That was charming of me," he growled.
She stared at her bowl. Without warning, she felt his hand on hers. "I'm sorry, Angela."
She cast a startled glance at him as he went on, "No matter what our differences might be, I had no right to belittle your father. It was thoughtless."
Unable to drag her hand from beneath the alluring warmth of his, she simply said, "I accept your apology."
His smile this time was tentative and brief. Then, as suddenly as he'd smiled, his features darkened and he stood, muttering, "I'll get that juice."
She sat perfectly still, recalling the touch of his hand, so large and gentle, covering hers. She wasn't even sure that he'd been aware he'd touched her at all. With great resolution, she jerked her hand into her lap, balling it into a fist. She mustn't be affected by this man! She had no right to those feelings—he was engaged to another woman. A perfectly lovely woman. And Angela was nothing more to him than a fleeting good deed.
Once her clothes were dry and she'd changed, he helped her back into the saddle, settling her against him. It was a black night, and she had no idea how either Tarrant or his stallion could pick the way along the wooded path.
He kept one arm securely about her as he guided the horse along. Without wanting to, she relished his solid closeness. She felt like a traitor to Eden, and to herself. But she had to admit that Tarrant wasn't the dyed-in-the-wool womanizer she'd thought him, or the superior snob, either. In a pinch, he could be quite nice, a real gentleman, as he'd proven himself to be at the cabin.
When it had come time for her to change into her dry clothes, he'd excused himself, saying he was going to saddle Cavalier, and had left her to dress in private. He hadn't made a single off-color remark or lewd sugg
estion. She was amazed by his gallant behavior, and found herself actually enjoying the long trip back to Havenhearth.
She'd expected him to hurry back, and assumed that he was traveling slowly to prevent her from being jounced unmercifully. She decided to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Shifting in the saddle, she said, "I appreciate your considerateness tonight."
She couldn't see his face, but she had the feeling he was surprised by her remark. "Considerateness?"
"I mean walking the horse back, since I'm no horsewoman."
He chuckled, and she felt it all the way to her toes. "It's too dark to go much faster. Unless you don't mind a broken neck."
"Oh, of course," she murmured, feeling deflated and foolish.
After another long silence, when all Angela could hear was the wind, Tarrant said, "I had Joe Kilgore phone for a wrecker to tow your car back to Havenhearth."
"Oh?" She hadn't even thought about her car. Where was her mind? "Thank you."
"I think Chauncey can have the broken brake line fixed tonight, but I doubt if the tires can be delivered before tomorrow morning. You'll have to spend the night."
She felt her heart skip a beat in nervous anticipation. "I… I could take a taxi into town."
"And another back to pick up your car? That's starting to sound expensive."
"I'll pay for it," she protested.
He laughed again, causing another delightful tingling sensation to run through her. She wished he would stop inflicting that on her.
"What's funny?" she snapped.
"You're so full of pride, Angela. Be sensible. It's late. You might as well stay. You know we have plenty of room."
She frowned into the night. "You'll tell Lunatic I'm there?"
"He'll be the first to know," Tarrant promised in a whisper that affected Angela in such a subtly intimate way she shivered.
"Are you chilly?" he asked.
"No," she insisted, wishing that they'd galloped headlong home, darkness or no darkness, broken necks or no broken necks. Being this close to the Prince of Delights would be a painfully difficult experience to forget!
Restless, but knowing the hazards of wandering around the mansion's grounds, Angela pressed the "security" button on her phone and called Alexander to ask if she could recheck some construction detailing in the basement without being arrested or chewed to bits.
When he'd assured her that she would be safe, she pulled the white satin robe on over the matching gown she'd borrowed from Delila and headed downstairs.
It startled her to see lights on when she opened the kitchen door that led to the basement. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw why. Tarrant rounded the corner from one of the storage areas that hadn't yet been cleaned out. He looked endearingly unkempt and dusty. Forgetting that she was in a nightgown, she grinned up at him. "Well, well, don't you look charming," she teased. "What are you supposed to be? A vampire who rises from his dirt-filled coffin to roam the night?"
He smiled, but just barely, as though something was preying on his mind. "I'm glad to see you, Angela."
Her heart leapt stupidly as he took her by the arm, explaining, "I need someone with a small hand."
She was pulled into a storage area. "Can you hear it?" he asked quietly. "That crying sound?"
She did, though it was very weak. Glancing around, she asked, "Where's it coming from?"
He pointed through a narrow gap between stacks of boxes. "Back there. A stray cat managed to get in here and have a litter of kittens on that old sofa. I got back there and rescued them." He indicated a cardboard box containing a calico cat and several squirming newborns of various colors. "But there's one that's fallen down between the springs. My hand's too big to reach it."
Angela gasped. "Oh, the poor thing." Without any further urging, she squeezed through the space and dropped to her knees on the couch. The end cushion was torn, exposing a section of springs. Now the high-pitched mewing sound was clear. Pitiful but clear.
She peered down and could faintly discern something. "I see it," she whispered. Pushing back her lacy sleeve, she dipped her hand inside the springs and very carefully closed her fingers about a tiny, furry being.
"I have it, Tarrant," she cried, gently dislodging the kitten and bringing it up into the light. It was pure white and so small she didn't see how it could possibly survive. Cradling it in her hand, she watched as it flailed and made squeaking sounds.
"Come on, baby, we'll get you to your mother." Carefully she edged back through the rows of stacked boxes. Then, kneeling, she deposited the kitten near its mother's belly.
The mother cat immediately began to lick her kitten tenderly.
When Angela stood, she caught Tarrant's gaze. He was smiling at her. "Thanks," he said.
She shrugged, hoping she didn't blush beneath his soft scrutiny. "I'm glad I could help." Looking down at the expensive robe she was wearing, she grimaced. "Oh, I got your mother's robe filthy."
He picked up the box full of cats. "She's a strong woman. She'll survive the catastrophe."
"Where are you taking them?" Angela asked, following Tarrant into the basement hall.
"Upstairs. It's damp down here."
"What were you doing here in the first place?"
"Storing some old files. With all the work you're doing at the factory, we're short on storage space right now. What were you doing down here?"
"I was going to check on something, but I'll help with the kittens first." As she trailed behind him, she said, "I had no idea you were so fond of cats."
"My affection for animals doesn't make good copy, I suppose, since it rarely appears in the tabloids."
He had climbed the stairs to the kitchen before she told him, "I'd rather have known that about you than some of the things I've read."
He placed his charges in a warm corner beneath a built-in desk, then added a kitchen towel to the box before he straightened and looked at her. "That makes two of us," he said, his expression serious.
She felt it again, that fierce attraction he was able to elicit with a simple direct glance. She turned away, murmuring, "Mind if I give the mother cat a saucer of milk?"
"Go ahead."
She could feel his eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen, getting a saucer and pouring out a bit of evaporated milk and then diluting it with water. "I've heard this is better for cats than whole milk," she began, searching for a harmless subject.
"Whatever," he remarked. "Do you have cats?"
She shook her head, placing the bowl beside the mother. "On the farm we had barn cats. They stayed with the barn when we lost, er, sold the place. I can't have them in the apartment. Landlord's rule. But someday I'd like one."
When she was again standing, he was beside her. "I bet you'll be a good mother."
She was startled into meeting his dark gaze. A lock of hair lay across his brow and a smudge marred his cleft chin. He seemed disarmingly vulnerable, human. Her throat closed, and she didn't know what to say. "I…I bet you'll be a good father," she said after a moment, then winced at her silly comment. What had possessed her to blurt that? She'd never thought of Tarrant Seaton in reference to children until this minute.
He was watching her with amusement in his eyes. "Do you think so?"
She shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't know. I…" She focused her attention on the cat family. The tiny white kitten they'd rescued was suckling contentedly now, as the mother lapped at the milk. She heard purring. "Oh, look, Tarrant, I think the little one's going to be okay."
"I'll save it for you. What do you want to name it?"
She glanced over at his profile as he, too, watched the newborns. He seemed to sense her appraisal and turned toward her. "Why don't we call it Angel?" he suggested.
"Silly name for a boy," she whispered, for some odd reason unable to speak any louder.
"How do you know it's a boy?" he asked, his mouth forming a small smile.
"It's just a guess, but I ha
ve a fifty-fifty chance of being right."
"That's an optimistic viewpoint," he observed. "Well, then, what do you want to name your boy?"
"Prince…" It had slipped out without thought. She bit her lip, wondering why she had proposed that as a name. He'd think she was naming the cat after him! And she wasn't! The thought was the farthest thing from her mind—wasn't it?
He lifted a curious brow, then nodded. "Prince, it is. Maybe he'll wear the title more easily than I do."
His face was devoid of emotion. Unable to stop herself she asked, "Don't you enjoy being the Prince of Delights?"
He favored her with a cool look. "How could I help it, when it brings me notoriety in the national press and all manner of deluded women in the dark of night?"
Suddenly she could see his side of the problem. After spending the evening with him, she had to admit that some of the news stories she'd read about his prodigal ways seemed overblown. And the night she'd been so rudely manhandled by the guard, she'd been given to understand that a woman sneaking into Havenhearth was not that rare an occurrence. Dropping her gaze to her hands, she murmured, "Rest easy, Tarrant. I'm not one of those deluded women, no matter what you may believe."
There was a drawn-out moment of quiet between them; the only sound in the large kitchen was the cat's purring and the soft mewing of her babies as they scrambled for rations.
"Do you have a boyfriend, Angela?" he asked abruptly.
She stared. "Uh, well, of course, I do," she lied.
"Oh?" He smiled wryly, as though he knew she was lying. "Where do you keep him?"
She was silent.
"You notice I didn't say lover," he accused softly. "Can you guess why I made the distinction?"
Numbly she shook her head.
"My mother once said you were an innocent." He gazed at her thoughtfully before he added, "There are times, like when you were scrambling out from behind those stacks of boxes, streaked with dust, a wide-eyed angel of mercy, that I could almost agree with her. And right now…"
